Jim From The Hospital
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Or 'The Courtship of Sherlock's Coroner'. When Jim went after Molly Hooper, it was never so much a seduction as a military operation. Planned with precision and exactitude. Well, sort of. There's things, like Plan B, like Molly turning out to be lovely, like Chronic Accent Insecurity, you just can't plan for. - Will be a three-shot. For Resident Bunburyist, who knows why.
1. Chapter 1

Reconnaissance

"Just explain to me one more time why we're doing this," Moran says.

Saying this, Moran is seriously starting to get on my wick. Well, no, he _started_ a while ago and right now he's burning it down very close to a fuse. "What did I do wrong the other ten times I explained it to you?"

"Just one more time. Bullet points. Really quick. I won't ask again after this, I swear."

So I take a deep breath, and being a man of infinite patience, slow to anger, untouched by the myriad passions that drag the human soul this way and that, I give it to Moran one more time in brief bullet points. For the benefit of those who weren't here, however, I shall recap the full arguments, because I am, honest to God I am, it's not just a mantra I repeat to keep from killing certain people, a man of infinite patience, slow to anger, untouched by the myriad passions that drag the human soul this way and that…

"One: intelligence." Approaching Molly Hooper, the favoured coroner of the great detective, in any way, shape or form, is always going to lead to a frank and honest exchange of information. And it has been my decision (and I am the boss, in charge, who makes the decisions, after all) that we'll catch more big juicy flies with honey than with kidnap and torture.

"Two: rehearsal." Come the end of this whole Greenwich job, I'm going to have to show my face to aforementioned detective. It will be the first time. It'll be the first time with _either_ Holmes, actually. It will be a moment of great exposure for me, after a long time working very hard to _avoid_ exposure. And since Sherlock will probably be setting the agenda for that one, I won't even be fully in control of it. Stepping out for one quick turn with Miss Hooper is just a little eency-weency bit of practice for all that spontaneous, unscripted social interaction. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

"Three: the psychological element." So that he'll have seen me. That's all. So that he'll have seen me and not known it was me. And then when he sees me again and we're both of us at the height of our glory, he'll know that I was there. That I got to him first and that I did it through his friends and I am everywhere and insidious and he can't get away from me until one of us is destroyed entirely. This is the big one. All the reasons are important, but this is my favourite. This is the reason that I lie thinking about when I can't sleep and it sends me off softer and easier than counting whole flocks of sheep ever could.

I want him to look me in the eye and not even know what he's seeing. In fact, dreaming of that puts me into such a warm, comforting reverie, the only thing that brings me down is the fact that Moran is smiling. Not in a comprehending, light-bulb moment, Now I Know sort of a way, but in a smirking sort of a way I do not like.

"Four: what's fecking funny?"

"I'm sorry," he says, and with the very act of speaking the laughter breaks out of him. "I can't take you seriously with that accent on."

I'm doing my Brit voice. Trying to stay with it, these couple of days, so I don't forget. It's a very important voice. Why is he laughing? "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all, no, it's just it's not you, that's all it is. Can't take you seriously."

I would question him further, but at that moment the door of the flat is slammed open so hard I hear it shake coats down from the rack. My first thought is what's hanging up out there, and if it's anything I care about. My second is that if the wall behind the door has been marked, there'll be trouble. My third is that my preliminary scout has arrived back.

My preliminary scout storms right past the living room door until I whistle her back. You have to understand my concern. This is Danielle, a friend of mine (which should tell you something straight off), a thief and seducer who, when she isn't looking up from between the legs of half of London, is looking down the barrel of a gun. So when she's stood there with no thought for her usual posture and composure, teeth slightly bared, eyes wide, I get worried. She's chewing about three pieces of gum, so strong I can smell it from here, like she'll never get some awful taste out of her mouth.

"I only sent you to _meet_ her," I say. But her eyes come down on me, burning. Pale and silent, and those eyes looking like they could _move_ things, the image that keeps coming up in my mind is of Carrie at the prom… Might be best not to laugh at her right now.

Her hands flap like she's trying to form words with them. But in the end she just ignores everything else and says, impossibly softly, "You know all that chat about the banality of evil? Do they chat about the evil of banality? Because I've just found Hitler. I need to rethink the whole approach. And a drink, need a drink, yes, good plan…" And with that she walks out of the doorway, still flapping, still muttering about a drink.

Moran sits forward over his knees, and there's more hands again as he holds his out, like one calming a barking dog and says, "That probably wasn't as bad as it sounded."

"No, it's fine. I should have known better. She just finds real people traumatic." She'll have a drink, she'll gnaw an unlit cigarette, and then we'll talk. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. _I_ will be fine. "Right," and I clap my hands so we'll all snap out of it, "Sebby, get your gun. Go and hurry that hacker along; I start work in the morning and I don't even know if they're expecting me."

He gets up, with new purpose, and starts to go about it. And I get up too, a bit slower, a bit more cautious, and go to find Dani at the kitchen table. She hears me coming, opens with, "You need to get on iPlayer. Catch up a week's _Eastenders_. You'll have to play it like a guilty pleasure, but it'll work. _Holby City_ too. _Silent Witness_…" She's sitting with her head on her hand, keeps running her fingers through her hair, over her face, like she's checking she's still real.

"You were bored, then?"

"Bored doesn't… I… It was… It was how I imagine non-existence would be. Oh, give me your phone." She holds out her hand. I do it while she's hissing for the cat. It's a sound McLeod associates with food, so he comes wandering through right and sharpish. There's no food, he can see that much, but he still investigates. Food could be hidden. Food could be on its way. So he walks over to Dani's feet, and when she leans down, crooks her hand under his chin, he poses quietly and thoughtfully for the photograph she takes. Then jumps up into her lap while she sets it as my wallpaper. "Woman likes cats. Can't keep one. Landlord won't allow it. Don't make a big deal out of it, but she'll like if you if you like animals."

This is all good information. This is what I sent her out for. Hopefully there'll be a whole night of this. But she still looks, from the way she's hugging my cat, a little bit disturbed. I'm actually not sure McLeod's coming out of this intact. Better do a bit of maintenance before the full debrief…

"So what are we talking about? Like Watson?" I could deal with that. Cope with that for a couple of weeks, easy. Watsonish would be fine.

"_Worse_."

"_What_?!"

"Yeah," she says, and starts to explain that Ms Hooper has neither the traumatic background nor the casual, everyday proximity to Sherlock that make Watson bearable. But then she stops. Looks up at me. The awful rage dies under her sudden confusion. "Wait, say that again."

"Say what?"

"Anything."

"Dani, what're you talking about?"

"_Where_ are you supposed to be from again?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake… There is nothing wrong with my accent. Moran even said so." Moran is edging past the door on the balls of his feet, trying to flee. He just wants to go out and threaten somebody, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm happy enough to let that go ahead. But he's creeping along and Dani gets up, hauls him in by the back of his jacket.

She stares and stares and he breaks, "What was I supposed to say to him? It's too late to do anything about it now."

"And when he meets Holmes?" She points at me, so I'm 'he'. Stands with her hands on her hips, "When it's too bloody obvious there's something going on and he has to sniff at it? We're going after the man's friend; we can do without his _attention_. You do him no favours being kind, y'know."

"I _am_ still in the room," I tell them. It doesn't seem to make a difference.

Moran looks edgy. "You're thinking Plan B then, our kid?" She nods. _Whatever_ it is they're discussing like I don't exist, he knows it will work, but only if they can pull it off. He thinks and thinks harder, furrowing his brow. But he can't make it stick, shakes his head at her. "It's too risky. And it's too big a job this close to the wire."

"I have a girl on standby," Dani says, "to take care of the cosmetic detailing."

Which is _the_… well, certainly _one of the_ most bizarre things I've ever heard out of her mouth. It begs that I try to interrupt again, to make some sense of this conversation. Being a man of infinite patience and all that shite I can't make myself believe right now, I do it in a soft voice, standing up, edging between them. "Excuse me? What are we talking about?"

"Don't worry, love," is how she responds, and I suppose it's a comfort that she's finally addressing me, "We'll get you a couple of Valium, you'll not even feel it. Or there's still some Rohypnol back at mine if you'd rather miss it entirely."

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I defy you to think of a single situation in the whole awful breadth and spectrum of human experience where what she just said to me (prefaced, if you remember, with the words 'Don't worry, love') could ever constitute any sort of comfort. Honestly. Answers on a postcard. Prove me wrong, please, before I strangle one or both of them.

I don't know, though; maybe it works in context, because Moran seems to be rethinking his reticence. _Something_ about cosmetic detailing and Rohypnol is working for him. "It'd be a good one to keep in the back pocket, wouldn't it?"

"It's a safety net," she says, really very convincing when she turns it on. Looks at me directly and says, "You don't want to go swinging without a net, do you? Not first time out."

Moran finds the word 'swinging' amusing. He tries to cover it with the old throat-clearing technique. I pardon him. Once you get to know him you realize that, for all the murder and the military precision, he's been a small child since roughly the time he was a small child.

To answer Dani's question, no, I don't really want to go swinging without a net. I just didn't think I needed one. My accent is fine. I can hear nothing wrong with it myself. Personally, for my money, it's just that they're so used to me being Irish. They're listening for it. But then again, they _are_ natives. Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think of it anymore; the doubt is there. So yeah, angel, I'd love a safety net, a plan B, a fall-back, something in the back pocket. But I'm not sure I want one that requires, and forgive me for repeating myself but it's important to me, _cosmetic detailing and Rohypnol_.

"What exactly _is_ this safety net?" is how I eventually phrase it.

They look at each other. Moran thinks about explaining honestly, Dani says no. This is all without words and no quieter for it. "Do you trust us?" Dani says.

I say, "Ask me one on current affairs." She bristles, like I'm being childish. "And it's _only_ a Plan B, yes?"

"Yeah, but Plan A's your accent," Moran mutters, shrugs, "_So…_"

"You've changed your tune!" I shouldn't shout, but I can't help myself. He was on my side ten minutes ago. He looks down in shame, but they're both still just waiting. "No drugs and if I feel like something's not right I want a full and cogent explanation."

Moran sighs like I just got his head off the block. Dani steps around and puts me in front of her, holding me by the shoulders. "Not so fast, Sebastian, don't run off just yet. I need one more thing from you."

"Oh, Dani, don't make me stay and watch this."

"No, you're off with your gun in mere moments, my love, but tell me first – as one who understands these things, these signs and signals, give me _one_, just one, that says it all."

He studies me the same way I've seen him study a target's house, looking for the right window, the cleanest shot. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that I turn _cold_, from the insides to the skin, under that searching gaze. Then, with the same care and precision he would afford that bullet, he utters the single word, "Underwear."

There is a moment's absolute silence.

Dani breaks it, grinning, "Seb, you're a genius."

All he wants, "Can I _go_?"

She waves him on. He escapes and I want him to take me with him. All of a sudden I don't want to be alone with her, not on a night of Eastenders, cosmetic detailing, Rohypnol and now underwear. Can you blame me? Does that sound good to you? Does that _ever_ sound good?

"Dani-" I begin. Then stop and swallow because my throat is too dry to talk properly, "Dani, the _feck_ is going on?"

Still holding my shoulders, she puts me back down in my chair, slides what had been her drink over to me. I turn the glass around, away from the print of her lipstick. "Let's just say," and her voice is nursery-soft, "that behind every great man is his gay best mate and a woman begging him to reconsider on the drugs."

"I can't," I tell her, "I've got work in the morning." Then, as an afterthought, I knock back the alcohol anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

2. Infiltration

Precision. That's what getting me Molly Hooper. Chaotic heart never won fair maiden, whether it wanted her or not.

Her computer, for instance, is already rigged. We had it done at the top of the week. Sent this skinny computer-science doctorate student in, sweating like a pig. Never played a con of any sort in his life, from the look of him. The kind of person, you look at him and know the dog really did eat his homework. I sent him to a fella I know for a quick lesson. Usually Dani would do it, but she's got a thing about students and he probably would have only ended up even shakier. Anyway, while I'm sure he was the subject of much discussion and mirth, he got in and out alright. He swore to me that this will work. And, like I say, the dog ate the kid's homework. Anyway, it had better work.

I'm thinking of hiring the cosmetic detailing girl for torture sessions. Vin Diesel is an anomaly; man is a mammal and was not made to go hairless. Danielle did some swearing too; swore this was all to the good and even if Plan B stays in the back pocket it would all make me more attractive to Hooper. But I think out of all of us the one doing the most swearing was me. Should have definitely taken the Valium.

But this is all beside the point. Molly Hooper's computer is the point. There's a new little app on my phone. That's the point. All I have to do is trigger it and, while Doctor Hooper is filing her extensive notes on this morning's platter of offal, everything suddenly nosedives. Computer goes haywire and completely ceases to function, all that hard work disappearing before her very eyes. I hear her from the hallway, begging and pleading and 'No, no, _no_!'

And step round into the doorway. "Are you alright?"

She's distracted. Turns her head but not her eyes and just says, "You can't be in here." She's got big eyes. Aside from the CCTV tap this is my first real look at her. Dani called her frumpy, but she's not. She's just sensibly dressed for work. I bet when she wants to she scrubs up well. Not arresting, or classically beautiful, but pretty. Sweet. And all the better for the fact that she hardly seems to know it.

I know she told me I can't be in here, but I'm doing the bold, brave saviour bit just now. I step up next to her, "It's alright. I'm from up in IT."

And that's it, key to it all, the magic word, 'IT'. She grabs me by the arm and pulls me in front of the evil machine.

"Please," she says. Every word is a sentence by itself. "Help. Please. Not working. Fix it. Tox-screen and everything. Gone. Fix it."

Using the app again makes things happen on screen. First everything comes back, but mixed up and out of focus. Then all I have to do is wiggle the mouse about a bit, type some nonsense across the keyboard, and everything rights itself. Not that it was ever really wrong, it just disappeared. But Molly Hooper doesn't know that. Molly Hooper's looking at me like her hero, so genuine and precious I'm almost sorry I tricked her. It's an unfamiliar feeling. Not an entirely pleasant one either.

"Thank you," she breathes. "You just saved me about two hours work typing all that up again."

"Never fear. There was an update earlier in the week; not all the computers took to it. You sounded distressed so…"

Canny little thing, she puts her pretty head on one side and says thoughtfully, "What were you doing in the corridor anyway?"

"Coffee break. I only started here, I got…lost." Which sounds, even to my own ears, disgustingly weak. But last night, somewhere in the cacophony of soap theme music and the sugary-sweet chat of my Tormentor and my own cries of pain as parts of me were flayed, I remember someone saying the word 'vulnerable'.

It works, too. Hooper, with a bright smile that cuts her face clean in two and pushes her cheeks up under her eyes and lights everything, laughs, and says in her twittery sort of way, "Oh, tell me about it. I've been here since I was a student? I can get from the car park, to here, to the canteen and back again."

"So no point in asking you the way back to IT, then."

That smile lingers as she points out the door, "Two floors up and then there's signs."

"Thanks."

I turn. Make for the door. Get as far as laying hands on it before she calls after me. "Oh, your mobile!" Ah, what a move. A bit classic, but there's nothing wrong with that, not if it works. It gives me an excuse to go back to her, and to be making all the usual noises of gratitude and self-deprecation. An excuse for tiny, glancing contact as I take it back from her. She likes that. Fastest blush reflex north of the river, I'll tell you that much. It's the contact that gives her the brass to stop me, to pretend she notices for the first time my new photo wallpaper. "He's cute," she says, just stagy enough so I know she doesn't do this very often. She's misjudging it, trying to scale up her genuine interest and overshooting.

She could be taught, this Hooper. If she was amenable, she would do very well in the lying lark. You just don't expect her to tell you porkies, out of that pretty face, those big eyes.

Not that I'm trying to hire her or anything. I'm not keeping her, that would be ridiculous. Anyway, she's Sherlock's already.

This is all stupid talk about ridiculous things. Back to the matter in hand, _literally _in hand, i.e. my phone, and the picture of my cat.

"That's McLeod. I know it's a bit sad, having your pet on your phone but-"

"No, I think it's lovely." Then she changes her tone. No, no she doesn't; she fights so hard to keep it the same that it… _stiffens_. Everything about her just crystallizes very slightly, but she's still smiling and still twittering when she adds, "Who's the woman in the picture?"

Dear sweet Jesus, she really has been hanging around with Sherlock. With the other stuff on the home screen you can hardly even see that photograph and she's noticed Danielle's hand, tipping McLeod's chin up, recognized it as a woman's and made the connection between me and her. Christ in heaven, if I told her the truth… It might almost be worth it to see her face… No, bad, stop it, Jim, head in the game, more at stake. Get back to her. Look at her. Look; you've hesitated too long now, she's going to say something else.

Adds again, "Your girlfriend?"

It takes an awful lot not to laugh, but I manage it. In the pause, last night boils up in me again, all resurfacing; the syrupy melodrama alongside the crippling agony. You can hear it all in my voice saying, "Ex. Bit of a lunatic, if I'm honest…" And then act like I'm shaking it all off and smile back to her. "Not your problem. Not my problem anymore, either, it was a while ago."

Even though I'm smiling, her face fills up with pity and understanding. I'm looking for this; I was told to look for this. This is supposed to be a good point to initiate the walkaway. It really doesn't feel like it, though; this feels like the point to stay and lose track of time, but apparently that's next week. It _really_ doesn't feel like time for the walkaway… Then again, I'm taking my tips from people much more experienced in these matters than I am. So yes, fine, we'll stick to the plan. Initiate the walkaway.

I tip the phone back toward her, "Thanks for this…" Trailing, meaningful eyes, inviting the obvious-

"Molly," and she stick out her hand. "Molly Hooper."

I shake her hand. I have to. "Jim." I'm using Montague for a surname while I'm here. It's on my ID if she really wants to know. I just don't really want to lie to her. Don't ask, because I don't know.

Oh, and for the benefit of any smart arse out there who's put two and two together, just keep your mouth closed. I'd had the ID printed before anybody mentioned that Montague was the famous Romeo's surname, and since then I have heard every joke. Twice. So just keep your mouth closed and nobody'll have to come round and close it for you, alright?

And this time, when I go for the door, I keep going, and there's nothing to call me back for. It feels _really_ wrong. I can't emphasize enough how much this does not feel like a walkaway moment. I look back, as if Molly Hooper knows something and could help me. Probably not even getting a second thought anymore, all because of one ill-timed walkaway, probably ruined everything and- And when I look back she's still watching me go. Sees me look and raises her hand in a limp, slightly nervous sort of wave. She'll beat herself up about that, for a stupid, silly move. She's blushing again.

Oh. Me thinking it was a bad time for a walkaway means me looking back, means her thinking I'm thinking about her. And yes, it means my own people are manipulating me, but this is a game they know how to play, it seems.

Still; doesn't stop me chewing the ear off Moran just as soon as I can get him on the phone.

"Hello?"

"Don't ever trick me like that again."

He gets all nervous, covering up, "Wh- What are you talking about? I don't know what you're talking about."

"You and that mate of yours, puppeteering me, playing Cupid."

"Oh, she went for it, then?"

"Big style, but that's not the point."

"No, but it was the objective, and, well, ends justifies the means, doesn't it?"

He's being blasé with me. But don't worry, he's not in any mortal danger, like you might suspect. I _love_ when he's blasé with me. It means he's secretly terrified. It's always great fun to tear him apart when he's too scared to properly defend himself.

But later. For now I need to know where I stand. "I walked away from her. She has nothing more than name and department. Are you sure this'll-?"

"Don't worry about it. It's all taken care of."

"…What do you mean 'taken care of'? Who's taking care of it? I'm the only one directly involved, aren't I?"

"Jim, everything's in hand. Just sit back and enjoy your day job."

"I don't like your tone, Moran." But he's getting away with it for now. I'll have a word with him and Dani both at the next possible opportunity. I appreciate their help, I really do. And I'm proud of the people I keep around me and how good they are at their jobs. I have a stellar support network. But I'm not sure I like these sneaky new developments. But this day has already begun and things are already _in hand_, so there's no point getting stuck in now.

Anyway, my break's over.

I was _trying_, for a while, to take Moran's advice and enjoy my day job. But then I happened to mention to the gent at the next desk that I got stuck helping out a girl down on the third floor, seemed nice. Shouldn't have said anything.

You get this impression, don't you, off the telly and the internet, that IT people are an affable bunch. A bit geeky, but intelligent, and just nice people.

Don't believe the hype, they're all bastards.

They call her Morbid Molly, just because she's a coroner. They do offensive impressions of her nervous little voice. They laugh. And me, because I have to work here until it's over, I can even tell them all what I'm going to do with their eyeballs. Hint: it involves letting them see what _arseholes_ they all are.

That's why I feel a bit sorry for her, when, just as everybody's coming back from lunch, she arrives out at the top of the stairs. I meet her in the corridor, to spare her the worst.

"Computer's not messing you about again, is it?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. Thanks again, though, really."

"My pleasure."

The nerves have jumped up a notch. I can see how it could possibly be annoying, but not to me. It just means she's thoughtful. She sees things through the eyes of others, and not simply for the purposes of using them. She sees it all maybe a little too clearly, but it's too rare a virtue these days to complain about it. Besides, I think I know what the nerves mean. What I hope they mean, anyway.

"Listen," she starts, and smiles darkly to herself like she's already messing this up, "I just… I was thinking, downstairs, in the morgue… I mean, not because of the morgue, there's nothing about down there that makes me think-"

Alright, so I can see how it would get annoying. Mostly, though, it makes me want to save her. "Drinks?" I offer, just to help her out. "After work?"

Molly beams. I mentioned before all the things about her smile that are actually lovely. She breathes out, laughing at herself. "Yes. If you want."

"What time do you knock off?"

"Six-ish."

"I'll come by and find you, how's that?" It's absolutely fine. I'll spare you the transcript and just tell you it's absolutely fine by her, a completely solid arrangement.

And much as she seems alright, actually, much as I don't like to view people as pawns or anything, I can't help but be a little proud. Day one, and here I am, objective realized. Not even two o'clock yet. You have to love how good I am at what I do.

Drinks, suffice to say, went well. You don't need details of how me and Molly got along. Anyway, a gentleman never tells.

I've already seen her safely home, got the cab, all that shite. I'm walking now, waiting on a lift

Oh, I'll tell you one thing. I'll tell you what helped Molly swallow all her fears and climb the extra two floors to ask me out. Apparently I'm not the only new staff member at Bart's this week. There's a lady, who she's never seen around the hospital, but she's met her in the canteen twice. She's a _consultant_, no less. Far above the level of us lowly IT blokes… A cardiac specialist.

"Cardiac consultant?" is how I greet Dani when she picks me up. "_Seriously_?"

"I know. It wasn't even a lie, really." She takes both hands off the wheel to press them briefly to the left side of her chest; "Infinite wisdom in affairs of the heart."

"Shut up and drive."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

I last about ten seconds with this stern boss shite before I have to ask. "Why was Moran there?"

"Hm?"

"Moran was at the bar. I was sitting at a table with M-… With Hooper and Moran was at the bar. It's not like I was in any danger. He knows better than to show up just for giggles, doesn't he?"

"You didn't acknowledge him, did you?"

"Of course not. I kept looking over though. He didn't even seem to be watching, he was just… _there_. Getting a drink in for some City pretty boy last I saw of him."

She grins, "Go on, my son."

"Needless to say I stopped looking for eye contact after that."

"_Perfect_."

"Beg pardon?" There was something just too pleased in the way she said that. It's the way she talks when she's just spotted an ingenious new angle on her Hope Diamond plans. There are, for anyone who's interested, twenty-seven angles on the Hope Diamond so far. Every one of them has been a disappointed dead end, but that doesn't stop her looking for number twenty-eight. But it worries me, to hear her talking like that, about Moran and me and eye contact when I was talking to Molly Hooper.

And then…

But no. No, they wouldn't. They're insane, both of them, but not suicidal. And neither of them is so full of the joys of existence, so high on life, they'd try it anyway. No, it was a ridiculous idea.

Ridiculous idea.

Like male waxing, that's another ridiculous idea. Eyelash tinting, equally ridiculous. False tan, yeah, let's fake the thing that gives you skin cancer, _doubly_ ridiculous.

Visible underwear, I'm not even dignifying with an adjective.

Just to check, I pull down the sunshield above the window and look into the tiny little mirror, then down at myself, then back at my curiously defined eyes. "Christ alive, I'm gay…"

Danielle tries not to laugh, then cracks up. "Then Seb really _is_ having a good night; I owe him money too…"

"_You_!" I cry. "You and your Lithuanian Mengele! You did this to me!"

"My beautician is from Bratislava, thank you."

"What in the name of God was the logic behind making a man look camp as Harry in order to get him a girlf-? Wait, you and Moran have money on my sexual orientation?"

"It's more on whether or not you actually _have_ one…"


	3. Chapter 3

Objectives Achieved

The second date, I took her to the pictures. Got a bit edgy when she picked something with the word 'Kiss' in the title, but it turned out to be a horror comedy about a genetically engineered leech, so that was alright, in the end. She's into all that. You'd never suspect it of her, but she's a B-movie freak. And I'm rather partial myself, when the fifty-foot woman decides to attack, or the giant crabs for that matter. When cars eat Paris, I'll be watching. That was a good night. We went for coffee afterwards and she was the one who couldn't stop talking about Sherlock, so I was perfectly within my remit to join in the conversation. Taking copious mental notes, of course, but enjoying it too.

And again, I saw her home and again I called for a lift.

This time, conversation in the car was a little more surreal. "Moran, who am I?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Fuck's sake, _quickly_, tell me who I am?"

"You're… You're Jim. You're the boss, and you're a gent, and you're scaring me a bit, mate, what's up?"

"She's so… normal. We were talking and she's so normal, and I was talking back, and I sounded normal, and that felt _normal_ and then that means that I probably felt, like…"

"Normal? Run that sentence you just said back to yourself and tell me how bloody normal you are."

I did. And found the sentence to be utterly insane. I was greatly comforted by this and sighed out deep, honest relief. "Many thanks."

Third date was dinner. I mentioned her friends, casually, just in passing. This, I had been informed, would imply that I wanted to meet them. Meeting her friends is what we call a 'positive relationship step'. That's the only reason I said that. Molly, for the record, for anybody who cares, was the one who brought up the idea of introducing me to Sherlock. Basking in a little bit of reflected glory, I think. She has every right to.

Date three was also when I looked across the table and said to her, "Did you do something different with your makeup?" She was flattered, already, that I'd noticed, and even more so when I told her it suited her. It did. I wasn't just saying it. I wouldn't do that to her. The way I see it, whatever the worst that happens, I want her to look back and think that these were evenings well spent. That she enjoyed herself, however it ends. I hope she will.

_God_, what is _wrong_ with me? I really need to watch out for this later on… If I ever set myself up in a persona again, I can't get over-invested like this. Yes, it's great for the performance, but it's tearing me in two.

Every day I get home from the hospital and Dani greets me with a drink, and with dinner cooking, and with intense and suspicious eyes she'll ask me how 'Boring McBlandface' was today. And that's just one of many epithets. She appears incapable of speaking about Molly in complimentary or even neutral terms. It's all bile all the time on Radio Mies. A couple of days ago, I told her I wasn't having any more of it, that she would kindly stop or I'd ask her to leave. She slapped me and yelled in my face to snap out of it before I realized what I was saying.

And now, today, it's finally time. I'm dancing, I swear, my heart is dancing. I've been up for _hours_ running the first of the bomber games, but that hasn't dampened the excitement at all. I'm only sorry I have to meet him with great bulging bags under my eyes. Danielle plastered me with this white ointment this morning, supposed to tighten everything up, but I can still see it. And if I can see it, you can bet he will, dead cert. But he was never going to see me at my best anyway. Normal as Molly and gayer than Cabaret, yeah; not at my best. That'll come to us. So today, pleasure has been strong enough to shove vanity to one side.

There is, however, a small part of me that knows I probably won't see Molly Hooper again. Tonight, for drinks, after work. But not after that.

And soon enough, a couple of days, maybe, him and me will meet properly, and he'll know me for what I am, and tell Molly.

There's something about that which just really fecking _annoys_ me. Can't explain it.

I step out for the usual morning coffee break and she's waiting for me. Got it all set-up. He's down there using her lab right now. "If we time it right," she giggles, "it'll just look like an accident." It breaks my heart to know this is probably the closest she's ever gotten to any real duplicity. But what else can I do, except smile and go along with it? I keep telling myself, this is what I came here for. The three reasons, remember?

Intelligence, she has given me in spades; he is her very favourite topic of conversation. As for rehearsal, I think we have successfully established, have we not, that I am more than capable of coming out in the world and getting what I want just as easily as I can from behind the curtain? (If, by the way, you are giggling at my use of the words 'coming out', in a sentence, do yourself a favour and lock your doors. That way, when you hear somebody beating them in, you might have a chance at getting out a back window. I'll let you go, if you can get away.) And now there's only one reason left, one objective to fulfil. Today I will give Sherlock absolute, indisputable proof of my amazing efficacy, and he won't even know it.

That's the thought that gets me down the stairs with her.

Molly tells me, like a school kid planning some dodgy tuck shop manoeuvres, to count to five and then follow her. And then she breezes off and through the swinging doors of her lab. I, obediently, count to five and push through before the doors have even settled.

Me, being the consummate actor, I sound exactly as if I've just followed her down the hall and knew nothing about this crowd she's got in. Cover with the usual stammers, the 'sorry' and 'I didn't know'. The beauty of it is, I'm okay to look right on at these people I wasn't expected. Watson on his feet, hands behind his back. That's an army thing. Moran still does that too. I bet Watson always walks like they're sending him to the wall.

But it's less at him I'm staring at more at his more illustrious flatmate. This is the closest I've ever been to him. First time I've seen him from level ground, as well. I'm used to be above him and up in a corner; CCTV gets you about the same perspective as the average house spider.

Then, finally, between me and him, there's Molly, who is a sweetheart and _not_ a consummate actress. I know I said she could be taught, but that would mean ruining her and I… I can't… If you could only see, if I could let you watch, the pig's ear she makes out of acting like I've just randomly walked in, maybe you'd understand.

"Jim, hi! Come in, come in." I don't just walk up next to her, but get to one side and then step _around_, from one shoulder to the other. She likes it. I discovered this one night we were waiting for a taxi and I gave her my jacket. She likes that feeling of somebody passing at her back. It makes her feel safe. This, and the fact that she's about to talk about her favourite subject again, she visibly calms a little. I like when I can help with that. She's so nervy all the time, it's nice to watch her settle. "This," she says, and with one open hand presents him like Generation Game prize, "is Sherlock Holmes."

Yeah, I know. It's great, isn't it? I'm standing dead close and everything now. He looked at me for a bit, back and forth between me and Molly. He's back to the microscope now, but I don't think that matters much. "Ah," is all I say out loud. It's a 'surprised' word. It's all I trust myself with, just yet.

Molly looks to Watson. He shifts, by stages. Left-foot-right-foot. Simple swivel would do, but it's left-foot-right-foot. Soldiers again, I'm afraid… And Molly, ah, dear, sweet Molly, I could _kiss_ her, she forgets his name. He gets all uppity about it. Fills her in and all, says hello, but you can tell that she's stung him to his very heart.

That'll sting her, in turn. Just so she won't feel so bad, I remind her that he's not important; he says 'Hi', I respond with 'Hi', but I say it as fast as I can. And then I look back to Sherlock. Specifically at the back of his head; he won't look up from that microscope. (Dark hair; it's all too easy to imagine what a prancing red laser dot would look like guttering there.) I do want him to look up, though. Not because I'm interesting. Quite the opposite. I sort of want him to call me a moron before I leave. Is that sick?

"So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you." Still nothing. So I bite the bullet, take a step forward, get a bit closer. Walk around behind _him_. Who knows? Maybe he likes that too.

Watson's a bit of a creep, though. Leans in a bit, as if to block me, as if to ask what the hell I think I'm doing. _Calm down_, mate, you're all completely safe. I'm not going to blow us all up in front of Molly. Seriously, I know if we were playing Spot The Gay One I'd be first choice, but close, _close_ second, very close. And still no fecking reaction from Grumpy Arse here. Think, Jim, what does he _not_ want to hear?...

"You on one of your cases?"

Molly, as if sensing I need help, cuts in, "Jim works in IT, upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."

I laugh at that. Yeah, I do. Never thought of it that way. Right Tim and Dawn, aren't we, when you think about it. Especially when you realize everything's going to end just as it gets to be fun… But that's a thought from the other part of my mind, and I can't pay any attention to that right now. The rest of me, the real part, could jump and punch the air, because my laughter gets me a glance from his Royal fecking Rudeness _right_ away.

A single glance, barely a moment. His head doesn't stop; it turns away from the microscope and back to the microscope and I just have the uncommon privilege of being somewhere in his way. And with this, only this, he murmurs the single, damning word, "Gay."

The magic word. Like 'IT' was, only far more awful. Like 'Underwear' was, and look what that's brought me to…

Molly's face just… She was laughing and then she's not. Like a rubber band snapping, she falls in on herself and asks him quickly, with a note of pleading, "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," he says. Covers with, "Um, hey."

The prick. The magnificent fucking prick. But just his condescending to speak to me reminds me of a little something. I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now. On my way out the door this morning, Dani stopped me. She was, and believe me, my very soul cringes to ever have to string this particular sentence together, _adjusting the waistband of my underwear_, there, I've said it… And I felt something else slip into my back pocket. And Moran, who was waiting with the car keys, smiled, but said her name in a sort of warning. She swapped that first thing for something else as fast as I could turn.

The first, in her hand at that point, was a condom in a foil wrapper. What I actually found in my pocket was one on my own, my _personal_ business cards.

"What's this?" says me.

Says Dani, "You'll know when it comes to it."

Says me, "I feel less and less in control of this every day."

Says Moran, the bastard, "Just show up, look pretty. We'll handle the rest."

Which, while I'm in character anyway, isn't such a hanging offence as it was two weeks ago or will be two weeks from now. Fair play to them; the time has come and I know what it was all about. It takes no more than a careless elbow to knock the kidney dish clattering off the counter by his arm. And I'm sure when he's thinking back over the evidence, me crouched down by his knees to pick it up will spring immediately to mind.

When I set it down again, I set it down with the card. And everybody in the room, from that moment, our fates are sealed. Sherlock and I will meet again. Watson will once again have no choice but to stand by while I do whatever I fecking please.

And Molly. In terms of me, anyway, Molly's fate too is sealed.

I can't hang around for the rest of this. She's smiling again, at goofy old me with the two left… elbows. But you can still see it; he's hurt her. He said that one word and the bubble burst. What's the _point_ of that? I mean, I'm all for human cruelty, I've made my living off it. But what's the point of saying a thing when you know, he couldn't but have known, it's going to hurt one of your own people? It's a side of him I never suspected could exist. I'm a little bit pissed off with him, if I'm honest.

I can't hang around for the rest. I just can't watch what's about to happen here. Anyway, I'm done, aren't I? Mission accomplished. Objective complete.

Addressing Molly, and _only_ Molly, "Well, I'd better be off." Put one hand between her shoulders. Not the small of her back. Small of her back is more comforting, but higher up is the traditional gesture of comfort. I can't tell you about the look on her face. How she feels. How that makes me feel.

Is meeting her friends still a positive relationship step if her friends are a shower of fecking bastards?

"I'll see you at the Fox. About six-ish?"

"Yeah," she says. But I want a promise. I look at her and wait for eye contact, hoping that'll be enough.

And then, in one last gesture of graciousness I look back at that lanky sod (at least his brother's got manners, y'know…), and tell him the truth, "Bye. It was nice to meet you." I'll be paging you some messages later on to be read out by terrified civilians, but for now and in person, it's arrivaderci, old chum.

From him, nothing.

From Watson, an _ever_-so-very-heartfelt, "You too."

Hoping that whatever comes, Molly can stand up to it, I leave that all behind without another word. Go back upstairs, live through my last few hours in a day job. And after work, I go and wait at The Fox and Anchor. Until six-ish.

And then until seven-ish.

And then, at seven thirty-ish, Moran arrives to take me home. Now correct me if you think I'm wrong, but that's irritating, isn't it? That's him telling me I don't know when to stop waiting. That's him saying I need his intervention, isn't it?

He picks up two pints on his way over to the table, and for the most part we drink them in silence. Then I continue a conversation I've been mostly having in my head out loud, "But do you think, if Dani hadn't made me look gay and you hadn't made it look like I was ogling you that night-"

"Happily ever after, James," he says. "Now, take it from somebody who's done more than a fair number of break ups; come home, get pissed and steer clear of _Silent Witness_ for a couple of weeks, alright?"

I'm still enough stuck in who I've been pretending to be that he can talk to me like that and it sounds sensible. So we finish the pint and go home, and get stuck in to stronger things than lager.

About ten-nish, that's progressing nicely, and then the _other_ one arrives. Like Lucifer's own P.A. she swoops in and stands over us ignorant mortals who are happily slumped about the living room, smelling of cigarette smoke and what she assures me is brimstone. Stands over us and groans with disgust, "_Please_ don't tell me you two are holding a moping session over heaven's most boring angel."

"Dani, give him a break," Moran slurs back. "It's a very difficult time."

"_Yeah_," I concur, "I just got dumped for being a closet case, which _you_ made me. It's a very difficult time."

"No," she says. And I start to feel a little bit of the old Jim creeping in. Standing there with her arms folded like she owns the joint, this is _my_ flat, fuck's sake. And she is _my_ subordinate. Might have had a bit of extra rope of late, but all she's doing now is hanging herself on it. 'No'? Who the hell does she think she is? "No," she reiterates, unmoved despite the very best glare I can manage in my current state. "No, Jim Montague from IT at St Bart's just got dumped for being a closet case. My advice is to put him back in the closet, bury him behind that godawful blue Armani, and never think of him again. Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, he had a stellar day. Go with that."

"This isn't about _him_… me… him, you get the picture… It's _Hooper_." I could try and explain, but she won't listen and Moran told me I'm not allowed to dwell on it. Danielle sees me struggling with that, I think. Her reaction is to drop down next to me on the sofa. And she _grabs_ me, by my _face_, the cow. "Don't touch me," I tell her. "Let go _now_, or… Or…" I have to think of some proper threats before Sherlock and I meet again, just in case…

But she keeps hold of me, implied threat or no, brings my face round so I'm looking her in the eye. "Listen to me. Just listen. I know you're drunk, but let me talk to the part of you that _born_ two drinks sober." As far as her hand will allow I nod, because this sounds _really_ important. "She never wanted you." _No_! No, that's not true. It's not, it's really not. But she's holding my mouth closed and I can't set her straight, but I think she gets the message somehow, because she shakes her head, dead earnest; "She didn't, love. She never wanted you because she never _knew_ you. She knew _him_." When she lets go of my face I don't move right away. "Now is that enough, or do you need slapped again?"

"No, please don't slap me again, Dani."

She nods once, officiously, and goes to fix herself a drink. In her absence, quietly, so as not to cause any offence (yeah, I see her point, there's something wrong with me), I turn to Moran, "Is she right? I mean, do you think all that was-?"

"Honestly? It's not how I would have dealt with it? But yeah, pretty much." Then shouts over his shoulder toward the kitchen, "He would have come to his senses by himself, y'know!"

"He's got a job to run!" she calls back. "Bloody bombs are made and all…"

And now, finally, I'm back on my feet and back in control of things again, "Right! Next person that talks about me like I'm not in the room is going to find out what not being the room is like, because you're going out the window." Which, for off the cuff and me being pissed, isn't too bad of a threat. Feeling good. Feeling alright again, thanks.

Dani comes back and, where Moran can't see her, tips her glass to me and winks. 'Good to have you back,' without a spoken syllable.

"And _you_," I say, with the same fervour, "Can your Hungarian girl or wherever she's from make me look straight again?"

"No. She'll make it worse with trying."

"Not good enough, Mies." But I'm sitting down again, and she's sitting down again. Farther away from me this time, thank God. "This is your mess, you sort it."

"You could always let Seb punch you; black eye's a very manly thing."

"Do you honestly think you're funny?"

Moran is hauling himself forward in the armchair, though, saying, "Now, hold on. There could be truth in this. I think we ought to consider this before we just dismiss it out of hand."

Dani nods along and the conversation picks up along that vein, continues on and on. Steadily, I'm coming back to myself. It's like I said before; just got over-invested. Put too much into it. Went native, as it were. Those couple of weeks were far too long to mess about at being normal. It got to me, that's all. I've got my people around me again and I know who I am now. And it's not Jim-from-IT.

They're talking about acid scrubs now, to take the bloody tan off. Can't help but picture it taking off everything else off too. Me in a couple of days' time, facing Holmes looking like Skeletor…

I hope Hooper's okay. Scared to say anything out loud because they'll probably talk about just turning my skin inside out and hoping I heal over in time. But I do, I really do hope she's alright. And more than likely, in a gap between pager messages, if I can get these two out of the way, I'll give her a buzz. Ask, at least, why she didn't show up at the Fox. I already know, but we should at least have that conversation. That's nothing to do with me and which me I am. That's me being _human_… Haven't been, in a while. Must remember and get that done before it wears off.

* * *

[A/N - Thanks to anybody who's read, as ever, and one more time to Resident Bunburyist. Now to go and plot my next wicked move... will it be another psycho-chirpy quickie, like this? Or shall I go chirpy-chirpy-bleak-eek! again...? Hm... Watch this space.]


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